


Silver Linings in Golden Tinsel

by 88thParallel (CanadaHolm)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, Developing Relationship, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fire, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, house fire, if you know me that shouldn't surprise you, not the house, well at least the relationship is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-08-24 07:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16635374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel
Summary: Sometimes, you have to lose your house to find your home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to masterofhounds for bidding on me in the 2018 Fandom Trumps Hate auction! It means so much to me as a writer to know someone was willing to bid on me, and I was so lucky to be won by you! <3
> 
> Thanks also to my betas for this one: elldotsee, Lediona, and mandapanda8. Their cheers and suggestions really helped shape this story.
> 
> Also, please note the tag for fire - specifically a house fire in this story. I never want to trigger anyone, please take care of yourselves. (And I promise the rest of this story is lots of lovely recovery fluff <3 )

**December 18th**

“Alright, Rosamund. It’s off to bed with you. Say goodnight and go get your pyjamas on.”

Rosie puts down her fork, plate practically licked clean of the cake Mrs Hudson sent for pudding. “Awww, no, Daddy! I’m not even a _little bit_ tired! And I’ve missed Sherlock _so much!_ We haven’t seen him in _ages!_ Please, can I stay up a _little_ bit longer?”

John levels her with his best no-nonsense look and her tiny shoulders slump. She looks to Sherlock with wide, pleading eyes. Slowly, her bottom lip creeps out in a pout.

“Tiny Watsons need their rest,” Sherlock agrees apologetically. “And I have it on good authority that Father Christmas looks favorably upon little girls who listen to their dads.”

“Only a few nights left now before he visits,” John adds.

She sighs and pushes her chair back from the table, until her eyes suddenly take on a mischievous twinkle. She climbs into Sherlock’s lap, kneeling up to cup her little hand around his ear so she can whisper. He listens, nodding and humming thoughtfully, eyes flicking to John’s with amusement. Finally she pulls away, looking at Sherlock expectantly, waiting for him to deliver the request on her behalf.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Rosie is wondering if I might read her her bedtime story and tuck her in tonight.”

John bites back a smile and tries to look serious, as if the request takes a lot of consideration. “I suppose that would be alright, this once,” he says solemnly.

“That’s what you _always_ say, Daddy,” Rosie giggles, and gives John a kiss on the cheek, then tugs Sherlock’s hand until he stands and follows her upstairs.

“So, what are we reading tonight?” John hears Sherlock ask as he disappears into Rosie’s bedroom.

“Alice in Wonderland!” she replies, and John chuckles. He’s been banned from reading that one — apparently only Sherlock knows how to do the voices ‘right.’ Rosie has been waiting more than a week for Sherlock to get back from his case in Glasgow so they can continue the story.

John clears the table, puts the stack of dishes in the sink, and turns on the tap to warm up the water. Outside he can see the night is clear, chilly but not too frigid. Although it isn’t as if Sherlock can’t hire a cab back to Baker Street if the weather turns inclement.

The trip from the city to the suburbs isn’t a short one, but it’s not so bad now that Sherlock has a motorbike. Leave it to Sherlock to finagle such a cool payment out of a client. It’s like the Yamaha MT-125 was built for him, sleek and shiny black. With his long coat flapping behind him in the wind, John can’t help but think of Sherlock zipping around traffic and through back alleys like London’s version of The Dark Knight.

He discovered he’d been muttering that thought aloud in the worst way this past spring.

“Daddy thinks you _look like bloody Batman_ on your motorbike,” Rosie had casually informed Sherlock, impersonating John through a mouthful of spag bol one evening. John had choked so hard on his bread that he thought he might need the Heimlich.

“Rosamund! That’s not — I didn’t —”

“You say it all the time when you’re waiting at the window!” she protested.

Sherlock, for his part, had schooled his expression and made light of it. “Ah. So would that make you The Joker?”

She giggled. “And Daddy can be Robin!”

“Indeed,” Sherlock murmured, biting back a smile.

“Eat your veg,” John grumbled, and thankfully Sherlock had changed the subject.

It had been the cases that lured Sherlock to John’s sleepy suburb in the beginning.

“I thought you might have insight on this autopsy report,” Sherlock had said in way of greeting the first time he’d shown up on the doorstep. He had swept into the flat, lifted Rosie from John’s arms and handed him a manila folder instead. “I need your military expertise” was the reason a week later. On one memorable occasion, “I was in the neighborhood and I think I may need stitches.”

John had been surprised, but happy to help. There had been a rift between them for so long, and he hadn’t known how to fix it. Sherlock has long forgiven him, he knows, but John still can't forgive himself. He doesn’t deserve such a kindness.

Still, somewhere along the way, Sherlock’s visits became less about business, and more about company. Now he has his own seat at John’s dinner table, and more often than not, he is in it when it comes time to eat each night. He’s far superior at gathering Rosie’s curls into bunches than John ever was, and he charms her with his animated storytelling on nights like tonight when he tucks her in. She runs to him for comfort when she hurts herself and she asks after him when he’s not there.

They have all settled into a odd sort of cohabitation, even though Sherlock still lives at Baker Street with Mrs Hudson. He’s practically become a co-parent, if John is honest, and he’s grateful for it.

“Well, that’s her tucked in, then,” Sherlock says with a smile, coming back into the kitchen.

John looks up from washing the last of the dishes. “She sure did miss you,” he remarks fondly.

“And I, her,” Sherlock admits, rolling up his sleeves, picking up a towel and beginning to dry.

“You don’t have to do that,” John protests, even though it’s become their routine.

“You made us such a lovely meal, it’s the least I could do. That thing with the peas is my favorite.”

John purses his lips against a smile and nods. “I know,” he says, and starts putting the clean dishes away. A nice welcome back treat. Who knew how Sherlock had eaten in Scotland without John getting at least one meal into him each night?  

Sherlock dries his hands on a dishtowel and buttons his dove-grey shirt at the wrists.

John takes out two glasses. “What’ll it be tonight?” he asks, and holds up a bottle of whiskey and one of bourbon. With a slight tilt of his chin, Sherlock chooses the bourbon. John pours them each two fingers.

They take their glasses and retire to the sitting room. Although the lamps are off, the room is aglow, the white fairy lights on the Christmas tree bathing everything in a warm and cozy haze. Ornaments cover the branches, baubles reflecting the two men side-by-side on the sofa in red and blue, green and gold. There are glittery snowflakes and golden tinsel and a salt-dough gingerbread woman that Rosie must have made at nursery. A pink stocking hangs from the mantle, a large ‘R’ made of sequins at the center.

Sherlock takes in the holiday transformation that has gone on in his absence. “The flat looks quite … festive.”

John rolls his eyes. “Oi. Some of us like ringing in the season with some Christmas cheer.”

Sherlock’s frowns, wounded. “I wasn’t being snide, it was a genuine compliment.”

“Oh. Sorry, I just thought …” John blushes with embarrassment. “I mean, Mrs Hudson and I always did the decorating at Baker Street, and I just figured it wasn’t your thing, all this holiday merriment.” He bows his head in apology. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“It always seems a bit indulgent to decorate the flat for the holidays when I’m the only one there to see it,” Sherlock admits with an air of forced indifference. “But I know Rosie loves all of this.”

“She does,” John grins. “Although the real highlight is the chocolate advent calendar Mrs Hudson got her this year. Runs down in her pyjamas every morning and eats that days’ winning beneath the tree. Unless it’s got nuts, then she gives it to me.”

“Has she written her letter to Father Christmas?” Sherlock asks with a smile.

“Indeed. And only a single thing on it. A _Fur Real Pet Dog.”_

Sherlock frowns. “Surely we’ve taught her better grammar than that.”

“That’s the name of it. And of course it’s the hardest toy to find this year because every kid in the UK wants one. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I stood in line outside of Hamleys for two hours last week to get one. It was a madhouse. Sweet, mild-mannered mums and grannies turned into absolute monsters once those doors were opened. It was like a scene out of The Walking Dead.”

“We haven’t watched that one in awhile.”

“Yeah, I’ve issued a moratorium on discussing the latest episodes to the the nurses at the surgery. We’ve got to get caught up. Maybe tomorrow night? We can order pizza?”

Sherlock hums in agreement.

“In any event,” John continues, quite pleased with himself, “Santa will make Rosie Watson’s dreams come true this year. She’s been such a good girl.”

“Top of the nice list, no doubt,” Sherlock agrees. “And she’s a _lucky_ little girl, toy pet under the tree or no.”  
  
John sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just want to make it special for her, you know? I don’t want her to look back and feel like she missed out because her daddy was a tired old grinch. She’s almost five, and this is the first year she’s been really excited about Christmas, so I did my best. I tried to remember the things we did when my Mum was alive.” John laughs and shakes his head. “One year she saw on the telly that people in the US hung popcorn on the tree instead of tinsel. She thought it was a great idea, so we sat around with needles and thread listening to Christmas music making long strings of it. I had so many pokes in my finger by the end, but it’s one of my best memories of her. So I thought I’d make one this year as a tribute.” He holds up a sore looking index finger as evidence. “You can see, it’s become Rosie’s favorite snack when she thinks I’m not looking.”

Indeed, there is a string of white fluffy kernels that begins halfway up the tree, a visual representation of where a four-year-old’s reach hits its limits.

John smiles remembering his mother, and wonders what she would have thought of her granddaughter. He was so young when she’d died, but what he remembers makes him think they’d have been quite a team. Rosie would have loved her, without a doubt.

He doesn’t realize he’s drifted off in thought until he feels Sherlock observing him. Their eyes meet and John sees pure warmth and fondness reflected there. When had that become a familiar expression on Sherlock’s face?

“You’re a wonderful father, John,” Sherlock says with a smile. “And you’ve built a wonderful home for her.”

Indeed, John has _tried_ to build a place for himself and Rosie, but despite his best efforts, even with everything sparkling and twinkling and smelling of cinnamon and cloves, it still misses the mark somehow. It just doesn’t feel like _home._

Especially at the end of the night, when Sherlock offers John a soft smile goodnight, gets his motorbike from the alley, and disappears off into darkness. Sherlock heads _home._ John goes back into his _house._ Their tiny flat in their placid little town filled with pensioners. Rows upon rows of houses that all look the same. Countless people living life on a loop, predictable as a train schedule. It’s hateful, but it’s safe. Rosie is safe. And John feels like it’s his penance, painful but earned.

John’s cheeks grow warm and he tries to play it off. “Let’s hope one day when she’s grown, she’ll agree with you.” He pulls his socked feet up onto the couch and turns to face Sherlock. He looks so young in the soft glow from the tree, the bouncing boy wonder John had fallen for so many years ago. He is still just as captivating, even if he is calmer. “Now, tell me about this last case. I never would have guessed the teacher did it.”

He sits spellbound while Sherlock tells the tale, trying not to be jealous that he’d missed out yet again. He wishes he’d been there to see Sherlock at work, it’s been so long since he’s gotten to witness his sheer brilliance in action. John has so many questions by the end of the story, but as he inhales to ask the first one, he stops suddenly. “Do you smell that?”

“Something’s burning,” Sherlock agrees, sitting up straight and inhaling deeply.

John frowns. “Maybe one of the neighbors has a bonfire going?”

Sherlock sniffs again. “I … don’t think that’s a bonfire.”

As if on cue, the smoke detector in the hallway begins to blare.

Their heads snap toward the noise in unison, a surge of adrenaline jolting John to his feet in a flash. He runs toward the sound, Sherlock right behind.

John’s heart skips when he sees the orange glow. He skids to a stop outside the loo, which is completely engulfed in flames. “Oh my god,” he manages, shock hitting him like tidal wave. “I’ll get the extinguisher!” John yells, adrenaline rushing through him. “Grab the blanket on the back of the couch — try to smother it!”

He runs to the kitchen, heart hammering, swearing and fumbling with the childproof cabinet lock for a moment before the wretched thing gives way. He flings it across the room and wrenches open the doors beneath the sink, grabbing the bright red fire extinguisher and bolting back down the hall.

Sherlock has taken the afghan from the sitting room and is furiously beating at the fire when John returns, but it’s too big, too out of control. John pulls Sherlock back, removes the safety tab on the extinguisher handle, and begins to spray. White foam flies everywhere, coating the bright flames, and John is sure he’s winning the fight until Sherlock grabs his arm.

“Behind you!” he says, pulling John back. Sure enough, the fire is rapidly spreading down the hall, over their heads toward the sitting room. John tries to hit it all, but suddenly the small kitchen extinguisher is empty.

“We need to get Rosie and get out!”

John wants to keep fighting, unwilling to give up so quickly, but he knows Sherlock is right. _“I’ll_ get Rosie, you go warn the neighbors downstairs!”

“No, John! We should stay together!”

“There’s no time! They’re elderly, Sherlock, please! Mr and Mrs McHenry, and they have a little old dog too. I’ll get Rosie and we’ll be out quick as a flash, just please, go!”

He ignores Sherlock’s anguished look and pulls his shirt up over his mouth and nose.

Sherlock shakes his head in frustration. “If you aren’t outside when I get back I’m coming back in for you!” he promises, then turns and heads to the front door. There’s no time for John to protest. He races to Rosie’s bedroom, opening her door and slipping in quickly to keep the smoke out.

She’s already awake, blanket pulled up over her mouth and nose. Her eyes are wide as saucers. “What’s that noise, Daddy?”

“It’s the fire alarm, but it’s going to be alright,” he replies, distracted. He throws back the duvet, grabs a smaller blanket and throws it over her head, then scoops her into his arms.

“There’s a fire? Can I see?” She tries to pull the blanket away and he holds it tighter.

“No, no, stay under there. We’ve got to hide for just a minute. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.” He ignores her muffled whinging and takes a deep breath. The knob is hot when John pulls the door open, and a wall of flames greets him on the other side. He slams the door closed and spins around the room, looking for another way out.

The windows. He sets Rosie down on her bed, and she finally pulls the blanket off as he’s unlocking the casements. “Daddy, what’s happening? What are you doing?”

John winds the window open, and Rosie screams as he turns back to her. Her bedroom door and the wall to the hall is on fire now, and smoke is pouring in under the door.

John doesn’t hesitate. He throws the blanket back over Rosie and lifts her into his arms again. “Sherlock!” he yells out the window, panic piercing the night. On the ground below, Sherlock’s dark figure scrambles back from the front door, just as John climbs out onto the roof with Rosie.

“John! Are you alright?”

John clutches Rosie to his chest. “Yes, we’re both okay,” John says, and begins to inch his way down the short, steep, snowy incline that covers the entryway below. “What about the McHenrys?”

“They’re fine! Just be careful!”

The mixture of cold night air and smoke burns in John’s lungs, and he can’t stop himself from coughing. His stomach plummets as his socked foot slips on the icy tile. He puts an arm out to keep his balance, grabbing a metal downspout behind him, and the blanket falls away from Rosie’s head just as bright orange flames began to lick at the window. Smoke pours out, straight up into the night sky. Taking in the fire rampaging through her bedroom with wide eyes, Rosie bursts into hysterical tears, clinging to John.  
  
“It’s alright, Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay,” John soothes, looking around frantically for an easy way down. He’s never really gauged the distance from up here before, but he’s sure it feels higher than they really are. Surely it can’t be more than 15-20 feet. A suddenly very dizzying 15-20 feet.

“I rang 999, help is on the way!” a woman’s voice calls out, and John can see Mrs Phelps next door, clutching her nightgown to her throat in the wintry air and eyeing the scene before her with horror.

“Do you have a ladder?” Sherlock yells up as he spins on the front lawn, looking for other solutions.

“Not anymore,” John mutters, imagining the old, second-hand wood being reduced to ash in the utility closet as they spoke. He shifts Rosie in front of him to shield her from the fire behind. She screams at the surprise movement and grabs fistfuls of his shirt tightly.

Sherlock has his arms splayed wide, mostly talking to himself now. “I can get your bins, or if someone has a lattice in their garden we can —”

“Sherlock,” John cuts him off urgently, raising his voice above the fire. The crackling is surprisingly loud as the flames eat through the house. “We don’t have time.” John looks down at where Sherlock stands below, gauging the distance. His stomach clenches as his only option is obvious. “I’m going to pass her down to you,” John says with a calm decisiveness he definitely does not feel.

Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “No! Wait, John! Help is on the way! I think I can hear the sirens!”

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John replies, locking eyes with him. “It’s moving too fast. There’s no other option. You have to catch her,” John orders, just as a small explosion within shakes the house. John startles and almost lets go of the downspout. Rosie screams, trembling in his arms.

In the light of the blaze, John can see Sherlock take a deep breath and nod, and he steps forward and reaches out his arms. John lets go of the downspout and inches forward. He tries to pull Rosie away from his body, but she is holding on too tightly, and they are in too precarious a position for him to struggle with her.

“Look at me, Rosie,” John says gently but authoritatively, forcing the fear down deep within himself. She can’t know he’s scared too. It will only terrify her more, and her fear might be dangerous if she panics and what he is planning doesn’t go perfectly. “Look at me.” She raises her eyes to his, her face streaked with tears. His heart aches. “That’s a good girl,” he says, smiling encouragingly. “I need you to be brave for me right now, okay? It’s going to be alright, Sherlock is right there, and he’s going to catch you.”

“No, Daddy!” she sobs, shaking her head vehemently. “I can’t! I can’t!”

“I’m right here, Rosie,” Sherlock calls up with a similarly forced smile. “I won’t let you fall. But we need to get you down so we can get your Daddy down, too, okay?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” John assures her. Fire is streaming out of the windows now, consuming the building from all sides. John feels the heat on his back, painful so close to the inferno. He raises a hand to wipe away Rosie’s tears. “Please, Sweetheart, you’re _such_ a brave girl, I know you can do this, yeah? It’s just like jumping off the monkey bars at school, but Sherlock won’t let you fall.”

Rosie swallows and nods dubiously, and sets her small, teary features to resolute, breath hitching. She lets go of John’s shirt and he gives her a kiss on her forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says with a half-sob.

“Ready?” John calls, and Sherlock answers in the affirmative, directly below them, hands held out, legs braced. John crouches and holds Rosie out over the edge, careful to keep his balance. It feels like Sherlock is a mile away.

“On the count of three!” John orders, stomach in knots. “One!” Tiny tremors, freezing and fear, wrack the little body beneath John’s fingertips.

“Two!” _It’s not that far,_ John tries to tell himself. _Sherlock is right there. This is going to be fine. Rosie is going to be fine._

It’s the only choice he has. The only way to get her to safety.

“Three!” John’s heart clenches as his hands let go.

Rosie’s solid weight drops into Sherlock’s arms so perfectly, he doesn’t even lose his balance, although all the air leaves John’s lungs just the same.

“I’ve got her!” Sherlock calls, almost laughing with relief. People are beside Sherlock now, Mrs McHenry reaching for Rosie.

“We’ll take her, just help Doctor Watson!”

Sherlock looks to John for approval, and he nods quickly. Rosie doesn’t resist as Mrs McHenry reaches for her, having been minded by the silver-haired woman on several occasions. Sherlock quickly removes his coat and hands it to Mr McHenry, to wrap around Rosie and keep her warm. They quickly move to the other side of the street, little white dog following on a leash, to stand clear of the blaze. A crowd is starting to gather.

On the roof, a shifting gust of wind blows the scorching, treacherous smoke to completely surround John. The thick, acrid fumes make his eyes and lungs burn. John struggles to keep his balance, even as he screws his eyes shut and descends into a futile coughing fit.

“John! _John!”_

“I’m alright,” John wheezes as the grey cloud finally shifts away again. His voice is painfully hoarse, his mouth and throat feel scorched. Nearly the entire building is engulfed now, flames licking at the plaster walls faster than John would have thought possible. He is running out of time before the tiny section of roof he’s stranded on catches fire too.

“Can you lay down? You can lower yourself over and I can break your fall.”

John moves up a little to survey the roof. “Yeah,” he rasps, knowing there is no other choice. He shifts his feet to get into position. “Yeah, okay. If I just —”

He manages a half step before his foot slips on an icy roofing tile.

In the blink of an eye, John tumbles down the short roof, hands scrambling for purchase, managing to grab a strand of Christmas lights but not much else. He has the briefest moment to see the ground rushing toward him before he collides with it, landing hard on his right side. He hears his outstretched arm break before he feels it, and although it cushions his skull from a more severe impact, he still knocks his head hard enough for the world to go dim. All the air is forced from his chest in a solid blow.

He blinks, stunned, the world in slow motion. Sherlock is leaning over him, squeezing John’s uninjured arm, yelling his name. Everything is hazy and muffled, like John is underwater. He can’t breathe.

They’re just feet from the blazing inferno, the flames blinding-white. Sherlock is kneeling between John and the fire, but his thin body doesn’t shield John from much more than the light. The ground rumbles and Sherlock’s eyes go wide. There are more voices, people yelling. John can make out something large and flaming sailing through the air behind Sherlock, who ducks instinctively. There’s a crash, and Sherlock throws his body over John’s.

Suddenly John is lifted and dragged away, excruciating pain blooming through his arm and ribs, down his hip and thigh. It’s a relief when he is set down in frosty grass, but even on his back, John’s chest is still locked tight. He wants to cry out in pain, but only gasps and chokes, chest spasming, the world swimming around him. John’s head is throbbing so much he can barely think. His vision pulses, fading between dim and blurry, and painfully in-focus. His heart pounds as the realization that he’s suffocating starts to take hold.

Terrified, he reaches out for Sherlock, grasping for a connection, someone to hold him here as the world tries to spin away. Sherlock must notice because he grabs John’s hand, and John squeezes with all he has, channeling his fear into a vice-grip.

“Just breathe, John! You’ve got to breathe!” Sherlock begs, taking a few large, exaggerated breaths as if John needs a demonstration.

 _I’m trying, but something’s wrong,_ John wants to say, but unable to form words, he manages a pathetic moan instead. He barely notices the the pain radiating through him from his other injuries. Frantic, he struggles to sit up, kick out, his body convulsing in a battle for vital oxygen.

“It’s alright John, you’re alright. Help is on the way, just lie still.”

Sherlock’s voice is shaky with fear. He pulls their hands apart to hold John down.

 _“Daddy!”_  

John gasps weakly, struggles to keep eye contact with Sherlock.

“Keep her back!”

He wants to beg for salvation, overwhelmed with terror.

_“Daddy!”_

“Where is that bloody ambulance?”

Sounds muffling.

The darkness pulls, so inviting.

Pain fading … he could just slip away. He’s so tired. He can’t keep fighting.

“No, John, _please.”_

Relaxing, spinning down.

A soft hand on his face. Tears in the whisper of his name. One lands on his cheek. The tickle of curls against his forehead, velvety brush of lips against his ear. Pulling him up, grounding him.

John struggles, fights.

_Focuses._

“Stay with me,” Sherlock is pleading. John aches to fix it. “You’ve got to hold on. Rosie needs you, and … and _I_ need you … we love you _so_ much, John, please … please hold on.”

His lungs shudder, suddenly freed from their vice. Cool, glorious, painful air. Smoky lungs choking, aching. Harsh, deep breaths, hungry for more, more.

Sirens. Red and blue flashing.

The hiss of cool air, the pinch of an IV. Lights shining in his eyes. Cold.

“John? … with us? … squeeze my hand?”

Something in his mouth. He chokes.

“ ... airway burns …”

“Open your eyes, John … we need you to …”

“ … O2 readings? … hydrogen cyanide …”

“ … hydroxocobalamin … need to intubate …”

He listens for the voice he needs to hear. His heart is pounding.

Rosie is crying. Can’t turn his head to see her. He fights against whatever’s holding him.

Gentle fingers in his hair on the side that doesn’t hurt. Sherlock. John tries to focus. “Rosie is fine, John. The neighbors have got her. She’s not hurt, just worried about you. You’re going to be alright, they’re going to get you to hospital and patched up in no time.” Sherlock, voice still thick with emotion.

John’s throat burns as he struggles to speak.

“Yes, John, I’m fine,” Sherlock replies gently. “I wasn’t harmed.”

 _Thank God,_ John thinks, as he finally succumbs to the darkness, _because I love you, too._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here we are in March, and I'm posting part two of this Christmas-themed story (although hopefully you'll agree angsty-fluffy h/c can be enjoyed year round!). Writer's block is a nightmare, and life got in the way and didn't help much either. I think I'm past it now, so the next parts shouldn't take me months to complete ;) It will be a tad bit longer than I first anticipated though, guessing maybe 4 or 5 chapters total. 
> 
> Thank you to elldotsee, Lediona, and J_Baillier for the beta and support <3

He wakes slowly, every part of his bruised and battered body clamoring for attention. Right now, it is his head that wins. He tries to swallow and winces at the pain.

“John?”

He recognises the object placed over his nose and mouth as an oxygen mask. He can hear soft beeping, and when he lifts his hand to adjust the mask, he can feel a pulse oximeter clipped to his finger and an IV taped to his arm. The murmurs of a hospital corridor sound not far off.

“John, can you hear me?”

A soft squeeze of his left forearm. John opens his eyes and blinks, trying to focus. Sherlock looks down at him, expression full of worry. Once their eyes meet, Sherlock’s shoulders slump a little in relief.

John tries to shift, to pull the mask away so he can talk, and pain hits him like a lightning strike, lacing through his right arm and chest, down his hip and leg. He shock of it makes him cough. His lungs feel raw and gritty.

“Don’t try to talk,” Sherlock says a moment too late. “You suffered inhalation burns from the smoke. You were kept intubated overnight, but once they were sure your throat wouldn’t swell and block your airway, they moved you to a BiPAP and then a regular mask. You’ve been sedated, sort of in and out all night, but now they’ve stopped it completely so you could come around. Are you in pain?”

John nods to the last question; the rest of what Sherlock said passed right over his head. John is sure it must have made sense, but to his hazy brain, it’s nothing but word salad.

Sherlock reaches over and pushes the nurse call button on the bed.

“Do you remember what happened?”

John shakes his head, even as he tries to think. They’d had dinner and Sherlock had put Rosie into bed while he did dishes, but everything after that is unclear. There was light, heat … fire. _The flat had been on fire!_

His eyes dart to Sherlock, wide with alarm.

“Rosie is fine,” Sherlock assures him, reading his mind. “She’s safe and completely unharmed, just a little scared. Molly has her now. Mr and Mrs McHenry and their dog Otis are fine as well.” Relief floods over John, until he takes in the man before him.

Sherlock is in shirtsleeves, his clothes rumpled and dirty, his hair frizzy and disheveled. There is dried blood on the cuffs of his sleeves, and down the back of one forearm.

Sherlock follows John’s gaze and purses his lips. “It’s all yours,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t hurt, either.”

John’s eyes drift shut with relief, knowing everyone is accounted for. The two people who mean the most to him are safe and unhurt. Now, as worry subsides, the pain is able to bully its way to the forefront of his thoughts.

The nurse Sherlock summoned must have arrived at some point because the next thing John knows, one is poking and prodding at him. John winces at the light shined in his eyes, and manages to gently nod or shake his head to some of the questions she asks. He starts coughing, which brings up soot-tinged phlegm. His throat is raw, and the sip of water she offers soothes like a balm.  

Exhausted by the racking, painful coughs, John is barely able to register the hot flush of morphine through his veins before he falls back into a dreamless, painless sleep, Sherlock’s hand resting on his uninjured arm, warm and reassuring.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time John wakes, the rising sun casts the whole room in honey-gold. His mind feels clearer now, but the pain hasn’t subsided. He’s turned at some point, is now laying on his left side. He uses the remote to bring up the head of the bed, hissing as his brutalized body protests.

He looks down to survey himself, just the act of tilting his head enough to make his vision swim. No one had mentioned a head injury, but a concussion is a possibility, and he knows burn gases can also cause headaches. His right arm is immobilized in a sling, folded over his body. His ribs ache, and he realizes he’s breathing in short, shallow pants to try and alleviate it, the oxygen mask still tight over his face. He clenches his teeth against the agony of it, mouth and throat sore and foul-tasting.

Sherlock is at his side, eyebrows knitted in concern. “Careful,” he murmurs as he helps John turn onto his back again. “They’ve been changing your position to help clear your lungs. Do you remember what happened?”

John pulls the mask away from his face. “Fire,” he rasps. Sherlock purses his lips in disapproval and moves John’s hand, replacing the mask over John’s mouth and nose.

“We’ll stick with yes or no questions, just nod next time.” John dips his head in agreement. Sherlock drops his gaze somberly before meeting John’s eyes again. “Yes, there was a fire. It started in the McHenry’s flat. Mrs McHenry had lit some candles and it seems Otis may have knocked one over. The fire spread up to your loo, and we tried to get it under control but were unable to stop it from spreading. I went to warn the McHenry’s while you got Rosie, but the fire moved too rapidly for you to leave her room the way you’d come. You ended up on the roof outside of her bedroom.

“After you got her safely down to me, the wind shifted and you were surrounded by smoke, which compromised your upper respiratory system. There are chemical repercussions of the smoke inhalation, which your doctors have been monitoring closely.”

John realises there’s an arterial line on his wrist, presumably for taking frequent blood samples to assess oxygenation, carbon monoxide levels, and ventilation.

Sherlock continues. “You then fell from the roof, landing on your right side. You broke your right humerus and four ribs. It knocked the wind out of you, rendering you unable to take a full breath for over a minute.” Sherlock paused as if the memory has caught the breath in his own throat. He swallows and looks at his feet, then shakes his head and continues. “You also hit your head quite hard, although thankfully your arm seemed to protect you from a full impact. A moderate concussion, thankfully no swelling or bleeding. You’ve got minor first degree burns along your back from your proximity to the fire, and severe contusions along your right hip and thigh.”

It’s a lot to take in at once, but as Sherlock outlined each of John’s injuries, they seemed to spring to life, as if presenting themselves for a roll call. Now his whole body is throbbing.

He tries to remember the fire and the fall, and the things that apparently came after. It’s like grasping at smoke; foggy glimpses of light and heat and pain and panic.

_Sherlock reading Alice in Wonderland to Rosie. Popcorn on the tree. Smoke under Rosie’s bedroom door. Mrs Phelps on her front step. Being unable to breathe._

_“We love you,” in a deep, familiar voice, laden with desperation._

John snaps back from the middle distance, raising his gaze to look at Sherlock. Had he really said that? Or was John misremembering? He _is_ concussed, and even if he wasn’t, the chemicals he inhaled or his lack of oxygen at the scene (which his mind can’t remember but his body seems to, tensing at a visceral level) may have caused hallucinations. Warped words, inaccurate memories.

Sherlock turns away, bringing John back to the present. He watches Sherlock’s back as he takes a breath and then picks up a pitcher of water and cup with a straw, pouring some for John.

Surely Sherlock didn’t mean it… _that_ way… had he?

John doesn’t have time to dwell on it long. “Knock, knock,” a friendly voice announces at the door, as a doctor walks in and introduces herself. Sherlock steps out to give John privacy during the exam, even though John wouldn’t have minded him staying — would have preferred it, in fact.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly lunchtime when John finishes the first hellacious “therapeutic coughing” regimen the pulmonologist insists on. He’s already dreading the next session, and each thereafter, since he’s on strict instructions to follow through with it every two hours. He knows it's important to keep mucus from settling. If he isn't diligent, he keeps reverting to shallow breathing, which could allow his lung sacs to collapse and increase the risk of pneumonia. Bronchial casts could start forming; the thick, tenacious mucus tendrils would mold to the inner lining of his lungs like tree roots. No, it really wouldn’t take much for pneumonia to develop, and John doesn’t even want to entertain the thought. But between the burns in his throat, the smoke still irritating his lungs, the broken ribs, and the concussion, each cough makes him see stars.

But as exhausted as he is, the sight of tiny blonde curls at the door makes his heart soar. He tries to sit up a little and bites back a groan as his body protests.

Rosie peers out from behind Sherlock's leg, her blue eyes inspecting the alien hospital room with trepidation. Machines beep and click and whir and blink around John’s bed, tubes and wires running every which way.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock encourages, stepping to the side and putting a gentle hand on Rosie’s back. She stays rooted in her spot near the doorway and looks up at him, dubious.

Sherlock scoops her up and carries her to John’s side, and John tries his hardest to smile reassuringly, even as he feels his blistered lips protest. God, he must look a fright. “Hello, Sweetheart,” John manages, wincing at his own hoarseness.

Her lip trembles a moment, before she manages a tearful, “Daddy!” and nearly launches herself out of Sherlock’s arms to get to John.

“No, Petal,” Sherlock says, pulling her back. “We have to be gentle with Daddy right now.”

Still, John longs to wrap his own arms around his daughter too. To feel her tiny body, whole and safe and unharmed. He tilts his head and motions for Sherlock to walk around to his uninjured left side, where there’s just enough space for a tiny four year old to cuddle.

Sherlock frowns in protest, but Rosie starts to cry in earnest, having been denied. She squirms, fighting the grasp Sherlock has on her.

“Gentle,” he says in a soft but stern tone John often uses as well. She whimpers and nods and Sherlock places her gingerly on the mattress beside John. She wraps her arm around his middle, and buries herself under his arm. John squeezes her back the best he can, blinking back tears that had suddenly gathered in his own eyes. Sherlock hesitates, then sits on the edge of the mattress at John’s side too, ready to remove Rosie if John gets uncomfortable.

After a few minutes, Rosie sits back and scrutinizes John more seriously. She sniffs back the last of the tears and puts on her most serious expression. “Why are you wearing a headband, Daddy?” she asks with narrowed eyes.

Sherlock answers, saving John’s voice. “Daddy has a cut on his head.”

“Then he needs a _plaster,”_ she reasons with a frown.

“Do you remember when you got that rainbow sticker caught in your hair?” Sherlock prompts, and she nods. “Daddy had to cut your hair. Plasters are like stickers, they don’t go in our hair, so the doctors use bandages instead.”

She looks down at the blue fabric holding John’s right arm against his body. “Is your arm hurt, too, Daddy?”

John nods with a sad smile.

“That’s a sling,” Sherlock explains. “It’s going to hold Daddy’s arm still so it can heal, and so it doesn’t hurt.”

“What do the tubes do?”

John is suddenly thankful he’s been downgraded to a nasal cannula. Though surely they never would have let her see him intubated.

“This one,” Sherlock runs his finger under his own nose, “helps your Daddy breathe a bit easier. And the one in his arm gives him medicine to make him feel better. The one on his hand is for measuring things.”

Rosie looks at him for a moment longer, cataloging and understanding the whole situation as much as a four-year-old can. She looks around the room for a moment, before her lip starts to tremble and she bursts into tears again.

“Oh, what’s wrong, Love?” John manages softly, meeting Sherlock’s equally worried expression.

“We don’t have a flat anymore,” she says in a tiny, tearful voice. “My room and my bed and everything was burned up in the fire. All of my clothes, and my toys and books, and our Christmas tree… they’re all gone.”

John’s stomach clenches, both in sympathy for her pain and at the fact that she’s right. The weight of it still hasn’t hit him fully, but it’s getting closer. “It’s alright, Sweetheart,” he murmurs into her hair.

“The most important thing is everyone is safe,” Sherlock cuts in, reaching to place a reassuring hand on Rosie’s back and finding John’s hand there already. Their eyes meet in surprise, Sherlock’s breath catching a bit, but something passes between them, and he doesn’t move. Instead he squeezes John’s hand, accentuating the statement he just made.

Rosie is barely comforted. “Do we live here now? I don’t want to live in hospital.”

Before John can answer, Sherlock does. “Daddy just needs to stay a few days, until the doctors say it’s okay for him to leave. Then you’ll both come home with me.” He must realise his  presumption  the moment after the words are out of his mouth because his eyes dart to John’s before dropping to the floor

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to  assume . If you’d like to, you are always welcome. It’s as much your home as it is mine.”

John nods, emotion welling up inside of him. “Thank you,” he rasps. He and Rosie would need to find another flat eventually, but the idea of convalescing at 221b with Sherlock feels like… going home.

  



End file.
